


Coming Clean

by deklava



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bath Sex, M/M, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m well aware that you cannot attend to yourself at the moment.  So I shall assist you.” Mycroft cast his gaze skyward, as if pleading for Divine intervention.  “Yes, it’s as ridiculous as it sounds, but you have a remarkable talent for needing my help constantly.”</p><p>“And if I refuse?”</p><p>Mycroft uncrossed his arms. Feeling his last shred of patience desiccate, he approached until they were barely an inch apart. “Don’t test me.”</p><p>“You like it when I test you,” Sherlock said. He’d instinctively stepped back when his personal space was invaded, but his expression remained playfully defiant. “Or at least you used to.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** chasingriver, of course ;)

For once, Sherlock was happy to be riding in his brother’s Mercedes. Twenty minutes had passed and already the expensive leather seats were streaked with grease and reeked of burnt chemicals. Beside him, Mycroft wrinkled his nose and edged closer to the other side of the car, widening the distance between him and his bedraggled sibling.

“I’ll have to raise taxes just to cover the cost of cleaning this mess,” the elder Holmes griped.

Sherlock leaned back and lazily dragged his dirty shoes across the back of the front seat. “Go ahead. It’s not like either of us pays any.”

“Very altruistic of you. If something doesn’t affect you, it doesn’t matter, is that it?”

“Makes sense to me.” Sherlock rubbed against the headrest, hoping that enough oil remained in his curls to make a mess.

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “I am _so_ looking forward to the next two weeks.”

“No, you aren’t.”

******

Like most things in the life of Sherlock Holmes, it all began with a case.

Lestrade had sought his assistance in solving a series of break-ins at a toxic waste plant outside Surrey. Sherlock had pinpointed the perpetrators easily enough, but catching them had backfired because he had followed his usual protocol: rush blindly into the enemy’s camp and tell no one where he was going. Lestrade had finally traced his mobile and moved in with an armed team, but not before Sherlock’s captors had plunged his hands into an acid mixture that burned off the top layer of skin.

Because John was still at the medical conference in America, Lestrade had called Mycroft while Sherlock was being treated at A&E for the burns. The elder Holmes had come, but he clearly wasn’t happy about it. It was another mess to take care of, this time literally: Sherlock was filthy but had refused a hospital bath. His bandaged hands left him unable to wash, dress, or feed himself, so he was Mycroft’s problem until John got back in two weeks. The British Government had an army of assistants, but none of them had annoyed him enough to deserve his prat of a brother.

Once they arrived at Mycroft’s Knightsbridge townhouse, the elder Holmes hung his cashmere blend overcoat in the entrance hall closet. When he turned to face his brother, he saw Sherlock leaning against the wall, face a mask of manufactured innocence.

“I’m feeling rather faint,” was the cheeky explanation.

Mycroft didn’t need X-ray vision to know that the grimy Belstaff coat was leaving a six-foot smudge on the new paint job. Lips pressed tightly together, he grabbed his brother by the arm, pulled him forward, and roughly divested him of both coat and scarf.

“Careful, I’m wounded,” Sherlock pouted.

“Which is the only reason why I’m not giving you a forceful lesson in manners.” Mycroft left both garments on the floor and brushed them aside with his foot, scowling at their disgusting condition. “I shall have these drycleaned tomorrow.”

“Thoughtful as ever.” Sherlock began to saunter out of the entrance hall, but Mycroft’s next words stopped him in his tracks.

“That’s far enough.”

Sherlock turned around.

“You’re going to make me recuperate out here? That’s inhospitable, Mycroft, even for you.”

“Enough of your trivia.” Mycroft approached, arms crossed. “You’re positively filthy and I will NOT have my home turned into a toxic waste site. Now be still while I undress you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. You’re taking a bath immediately.”

The younger Holmes laughed, but it sounded forced. His eyes were still huge with... something.  “A bath? Like this?” He raised his bandaged hands.

“I’m well aware that you cannot attend to yourself at the moment.  So I shall assist you.” Mycroft cast his gaze skyward, as if pleading for Divine intervention.  “Yes, it’s as ridiculous as it sounds, but you have a remarkable talent for needing my help constantly.”

“And if I refuse?”

Mycroft uncrossed his arms. Feeling his last shred of patience desiccate, he approached until they were barely an inch apart. “Don’t test me.”

“You like it when I test you,” Sherlock said. He’d instinctively stepped back when his personal space was invaded, but his expression remained playfully defiant “Or at least you _used_ to.”

Mycroft hesitated. For one intense moment, the outside world receded and there was only him and Sherlock, who was daring him to remember something that he could never forget anyway. When he finally spoke, his breath scorched Sherlock’s parted lips. “Don’t test me,” he repeated. His voice was as clipped and precise as usual, but its undertone had thickened. “Is that in any way unclear?’

When Sherlock didn’t reply, Mycroft speedily divested him of everything, even his shoes and socks. Then he stepped back and beheld his younger brother naked for the first time in over fifteen years.

“Same as you remember?” Sherlock asked throatily. His pupils were expanding and his cock stirred with the beginnings of an erection.

Mycroft swallowed and kept his gaze above Sherlock’s waist. “Follow me,” he ordered, turning and heading for the spiral staircase.

But the younger Holmes remained in place. Mycroft paused, one foot on the lowest step, and looked back. Sherlock was staring at him.

“What are you waiting for?” He tried not to look at his brother’s hardening cock, or think about how his own was stirring in response. “I can’t imagine you want me to drag you, after all the manhandling you’ve undergone tonight.”

Sherlock’s tongue wet his lower lip. “I could take more, as I’m sure you remember.”


	2. Chapter 2

That gesture and those words took Mycroft Holmes back fifteen years, to the night of Sherlock’s eighteenth birthday. Mummy had spent weeks planning a party, and it had taken Sherlock less than an hour to undo all her hard work. He’d sulked, complained about ‘unacceptable’ gifts, and finally stormed off to his room to enjoy his rotten mood in peace. Mycroft had been furious: while Mummy apologised to the guests, the elder Holmes confronted his brother.

“You’ve gone and broken Mummy’s heart. Congratulations!”

Sherlock sneered. “She should have known better than to inflict me with something as boring as a party.”

“What you did was inexcusable.”

“Nothing’s inexcusable.” Sherlock opened his desk drawer and, to Mycroft’s dismay, took out a lighter and a king-sized marijuana cigarette. “Except stupidity, that is.”

When he moved to light the joint, Mycroft smacked it out of his hand.

“Are you mad?”

Sherlock reddened in anger for a split second. Then a cunning expression stole over his face.

“Have some with me or piss off and leave my room. Either way this conversation is-”

A slap across the face cut him off. Bellowing in rage, he tackled his older brother, sending both of them colliding with the bed. A flurry of punches and curses followed, until Sherlock grabbed a fistful of Mycroft’s favourite Hermes shirt and yanked, tearing the fabric and sending the buttons everywhere. Seeing murder in his brother’s eyes, Sherlock jumped off the bed and ran for the door, but Mycroft caught him by the waistband of his designer jeans and threw him facedown on the floor.

“You ungrateful little shit,” the elder Holmes seethed. He wanted to punish, humiliate, and tame his wild sibling all at once. Before his brain could properly register his actions, Mycroft  tugged Sherlock’s jeans and pants down to expose his arse.

“Get off me, you fat pig!” the younger man yelled.

“Not until you have been properly dealt with,” Mycroft retorted breathlessly. The sight of those perfect buttocks was affecting him in ways he hadn’t anticipated: his throat felt tight, his pulse sped up and, to his shock, he was getting hard.

_Stop! He’s your BROTHER, damn it!_

Shaking his head to clear it, he administered several heavy blows that turned Sherlock’s arse from white to red in under a minute.

Sherlock swore and struggled at the beginning, but as the punishment progressed, he began to moan and writhe against the carpet. He actually sounded like he was deriving pleasure from being spanked like a schoolboy. When Mycroft finally stopped, Sherlock bucked a couple of times like a hysterical colt, cried out, and then went still.

Mycroft knew what had happened. Even if he didn’t have a rapier-sharp mind that was alternately the pride and terror of his superiors, it didn’t take a genius to recognize the aftermath of a particularly intense orgasm. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions flooded him.

Guilt.

_Pride_.

Mortification.

_Arousal._

“You are shameless,” he said when he could finally speak. His prick distorted the fine cut of his trousers, and the air was suddenly so damned _warm_.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, facing his brother. His eyes gleamed, and sperm covered his belly and shirtfront. 

“That,” he murmured, “was a marvellous birthday present.”

Mycroft didn’t answer. What could he say? “You’re welcome” was so trite given the situation, and the words he really wanted to use were dangerous. “I’m a moment away from fucking you into the carpet” would give Sherlock lifelong power over him. But silence proved to be no protection, because the younger man easily figured it out.

“Oh, Mycroft.” Sherlock shook his head slowly as he reached for his brother’s belt. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The elder Holmes often wondered afterward if he would have given in or swatted Sherlock’s hand away. As it was, Mummy’s approaching footsteps made them scramble apart and hide the evidence of their encounter: Sherlock yanked off his semen-stained shirt and Mycroft untucked his ruined Hermes original, letting the hem drape over his dwindling erection.

Even after Mummy stormed into the room and spent ten minutes shouting at them for fighting, the sexual tension between the Holmes brothers lingered in the heavy air, like a lightning storm that refused to fizzle out.

The moment Mycroft could escape to his room, he locked the door, sank onto his bed, and undid his trousers.  As he reached for his cock, he noticed that his palms were still red and hot from the spanking.  He ran his tongue across one and tasted sweat. His and Sherlock’s.

Clenching his teeth to hold any noises back, Mycroft took himself in hand and stroked at a furious rate, too worked up for foreplay, until he came so hard that drops of semen struck the headboard.   Cool fluid trickled down his chin: when he wiped it off, his fingers came away bloody. In his excitement, he’d bitten his lip.

There was no followup to that encounter, or even a mention of it.  Mycroft locked the memory away in his mind palace, which had an airtight dungeon for things he had to forget in order to stay sane. But during the rare moments when he allowed himself to remember, he invariably became so hard that only a wanking session gave him relief. Afterwards, he would feel more disappointed than guilty- disappointed that it was his hand and not Sherlock’s that brought him to orgasm.

He  always suspected that one day Sherlock would try to finish what Mummy had interrupted. Mycroft had undone him, leaving the balance of power between them uneven, and that would never do.

Tonight, it appeared, Sherlock intended to tip the scales. Mycroft wondered whether victory and defeat would ultimately feel- and taste- the same.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was being deliberately provocative, daring his brother to make the first move. Mycroft refused to give him that advantage- or satisfaction.

“Can you now?” he said in response to Sherlock’s challenge about being able to take more ‘manhandling’. “I assure you that I have no interest in finding out when you look and smell like this. So unless you follow me now, I will text Geoffrey to come round and see to you.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the mention of Mycroft’s day shift bodyguard. “His breath reeks of onions.”

“Then the two of you will be compatible in the olfactory department. So what shall it be? Geoffrey or....” After a significant pause, he added, “Myself...provided you stop this foolishness and come along now?”

Sherlock scowled, but he lost neither his erection nor the raw hunger that turned his eyes nearly black. “I suppose you’re the less repulsive option, and please do NOT take that as a compliment,” he sniffed as he slowly approached the staircase. His cock hardened even more, belying his petulant tone. “This isn’t over, Mycroft.”

Of that, Mycroft hadn’t the slightest doubt.

******

It had been years since Mycroft drew a bath, for himself or anyone else: he preferred to shower. But he did remarkably well considering that his beautiful and _naked_ younger brother was standing in the doorway the entire time.

“There,” he said, finally standing up. His shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up past the elbow, and his reddish hair, normally stick-straight with product, had loosened in the steam. “In you go.”

Sherlock approached the sunken jacuzzi and dipped one toe into the  water. “It’s too hot,” he complained.

“Nonsense. Now get in, before I call for some rather odorous assistance.”

Scowling, Sherlock walked down the few steps into the water. He sat and rested his arms on the ledge, unable to resist a sigh of pleasure as the liquid warmth penetrated his sore muscles.

“I’ll do your hair first. It looks like a rat’s nest.” Mycroft tried not to stare at Sherlock’s penis, which was now fully erect and waving beneath the water’s rippled surface. “Do try to keep still.”

Sherlock grinned. “Some parts of my body are refusing to obey.”

Mycroft swallowed to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. _Goddamn it, Sherlock_. “Keep still,” he said again. Then he turned on the nearby shower, unhooked the hose attachment, and sprayed warm water all over Sherlock’s head. The younger Holmes sputtered and grimaced as greasy rivulets dripped down his face, but he held his tongue: to complain would have been akin to admitting that he’d brought this on himself. So he made faces but kept his mouth shut until the hair-washing ordeal was over. Then he stood up and turned around.

“I’m still dirty,” he smirked, nodding down at the areas of his body where embedded dirt had refused to come loose. He let his gaze linger on his jutting erection before looking up at Mycroft. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wash the rest of me too.”

“I was planning to.” Mycroft ran a flannel under the tap. He was so sweaty now that his white silk shirt was nearly transparent. “Come here.”

Sherlock stepped back instead.

Mycroft’s hand shot out like a cobra attacking its prey and seized his brother’s hair.

“This is the last time tonight that you will defy me, do you understand? I-”

He was cut off when Sherlock’s mouth aggressively claimed his. 


	4. Chapter 4

The flannel hit the water with a soft splash. Mycroft actually felt his brother’s sly grin against his lips just before strong arms embraced him and dragged him off the ledge into the water.

Even now, Mycroft’s analytical mind lunged to the fore like a runaway train, providing its usual protective barrier.

  _He’s crossing his wrists between my shoulder blades- keeping his hands upright so the bandages remain dry- 15 percent more strength in left arm than right_. _Water temperature is 37 degrees. Same as that of the average human body._

As Sherlock’s tongue plunged into his mouth, the fact-flood intensified.

_He had a cigarette two days ago. Should have known a danger night was coming. Must be more vigilant or next time he’ll lose more than just the use of his-_

Water sloshed everywhere as Mycroft, even now, worried about his brother’s safety. Breaking free, he grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and raised them, exclaiming breathlessly, “Don’t get your hands wet, you fool.”

“No fear of that. I don’t need my hands to even the score with you, brother dear.” Sherlock thrust a wet, soapy thigh between Mycroft’s legs and massaged the growing bulge there. “I owe you an orgasm.”

Mycroft gasped at the friction. He couldn’t deny that despite the laws, the social taboo, the sheer _insanity_ of getting close to Sherlock, he wanted this. But the competitive spirit that rarely allowed them to cooperate now refused to let him hand his brother an effortless victory. Growling, he sucked Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth,  providing just enough distraction for him to make his move.

Sherlock had always underestimated Mycroft. Although their fraternal disagreements had often exploded into physical violence over the years, the younger Holmes never seemed to equate his brother with extraordinary speed or dexterity. Perhaps he really did think that Mycroft had attained his current position of power without once leaving his padded leather office chair.

_Time for a reality check, brother mine._

Mycroft worked fast. One minute they were struggling against each other in the tub; the next, Sherlock was on his knees in the water and bent over the ledge, wrists secured behind his back with an obscenely expensive towel. Mycroft hovered over him, planting a wet palm against the back of his neck to hold him in place.

“Perhaps now you’ll take me seriously?”

Sherlock’s laugh was shaky. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

Mycroft’s other hand glided down to Sherlock’s bottom. His fingers danced over the cleft, causing the younger man to shudder.

“I’m afraid you’ve forced my hand. Literally,” he said, marvelling at how steady he managed to sound.

Sherlock made a noise that was probably intended to be derisive, but sounded desperate. “You wouldn’t. You’re too bloody proper.”

“I think you know that’s not true. Otherwise why go to all this effort. Hmm?” Mycroft was now grateful for his brief time spent as an interrogator for the British Secret Service. It had conditioned him to sound controlled and benign even while preparing to do something extreme.

“Get on with it already!”

“You’re angry, aren’t you? You hoped this would be an opportunity to even the score between us.” Mycroft slid a wet fingertip between Sherlock’s cheeks and circled the clenched hole. “Since this doesn’t appear to be progressing the way you intended, would you like me to stop?”

Sherlock shifted on the warm tiles, clearly trying to decide whether he wanted to call off a contest he was apparently going to lose or give in to his mounting desperation. “Stop fannying about,” he finally blurted. “If you’re going to do it, carry on!”

Mycroft’s finger pressed lightly against the tight ring of  muscle. When he felt it flutter at his touch, his cock jumped against his zip.  _So tight...._

Sherlock shuddered but still managed to say, “You’re getting off on this: your breathing has accelerated and your heart rate has increased by several beats per minute. You’ll come before I do.”

Mycroft had nearly forgotten that this was also a contest, a power play, that could possibly be won from the bottom. “Perhaps,” he said as his finger sank into his brother’s warm body. “But only because I might not _let_ you come before I do.”

Sherlock moaned at the first brush across his prostate. “You bastard,” he choked.

“If I am, then we deserve each other, don’t we?” Mycroft massaged that sensitive little bump in slow circles, relishing the way Sherlock bit his lip and squirmed. “You’re deliciously tight for such a manipulative little tease. Let’s loosen you up a bit.”

He knelt, shivering with pleasure as the warm water covered him up to the waist. After sliding his finger out, he gripped the twin mounds of his brother’s buttocks, spread them, and leaned in close.

He hadn’t done this to anyone in a long time; not since his last serious relationship had ended ten years ago. He knew he had a talented tongue, and he put it to good use now, intent on conquering Sherlock a second time.

Sherlock hissed at the first warm and wet swipe against his hole. It was a sharp and eager noise that broadened into a yell when Mycroft’s thumb pressed against his perineum, intensifying the heat that flooded his his body. Trembling now with need, he choked, “Is this how you worked your way up in the Secret Service? Licked arse nonstop?”

Ignoring the hoarse taunt, Mycroft flattened  his tongue and dragged it back and forth several times across Sherlock’s entrance, delighting in how quickly and easily it relaxed and opened. As he stiffened his tongue and poked it inside his brother’s body, he could practically _taste_ victory.

Sherlock squirmed against the tub ledge, no longer having the resolve to hurl more insults. His lightly muscled body was practically vibrating with arousal, and sweat now mingled with the drying water droplets on his face and back.  When Mycroft pulled his cheeks further apart and licked deeper into his hole, Sherlock whimpered like a bitch in heat and pushed his hips back, urging that hot and wet intruder deeper into his body.

Mycroft was mesmerised by the slow and scorching task of undoing his brother. As he thrust his tongue in and out, his heart thumped wildly and the heady sense of domination left him dizzy and partly breathless. When he felt a familiar tightening in his balls, he plunged one hand into the water and squeezed himself through his trousers.

Sherlock noticed, of course. He lifted his head and started to look over his shoulder, but Mycroft forestalled any acidic commentary by pushing a finger in alongside his tongue. Sherlock stiffened before emitting a strangled moan and letting his forehead hit the tiles with a thump.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed.

Determined to make Sherlock come before his next attempt at orgasm delay failed, Mycroft snaked his other hand between his brother’s legs. Finding Sherlock’s stiff penis, he grasped it near the head and massaged the sweet spot with his thumb, thrilling at how the younger man bucked in his grasp and began panting.

This was wrong on so many levels, but neither of them cared. Grunting and growling, Sherlock ground his hips against Mycroft’s face while simultaneously fucking his hand.

“This isn’t over!” he blurted. It was all he had time to threaten before his cock jerked and trembled in Mycroft’s fist. He howled, managing to sound both exhilarated and despairing at the same time, as sperm streaked across his belly and coated his brother’s fingers. “Oh, _fuck_!”

Mycroft kept his tongue buried in Sherlock’s fluttering hole, massaging the hypersensitive nerves to prolong Sherlock’s pleasure and make his victory complete. When the younger man finally crumpled, Mycroft rose abruptly, undid his sodden trousers, and ground his cock against his brother’s wet crack, grasping the tub ledge to maintain his balance. The friction was exactly what he needed to bring on the most intense orgasm he’d had in ages. Watching his semen splatter onto Sherlock’s back, he felt the glow of pride underscore the scorching endorphin high.

_I win._

Sherlock knew what he was thinking, of course. When his breathing steadied enough to let him speak, the younger man rasped, “No, you didn’t.”

“I’m quite certain I did.” After confirming that Sherlock’s bandages were still safely dry, Mycroft undid the towel that bound his brother’s wrists,  wiped the sperm off, and climbed out of the tub. His wet clothes instantly created a widening puddle. “Here. Let me help you out.”

Sherlock shook his head fiercely. Using his elbows for leverage, he got out of the water unaided and faced his brother. His dilated pupils and sex-flushed face contrasted with a sly grin.

“You were on the verge of coming long before I was. But your hands were free to apply preventative measures. I was at a comparative disadvantage.” He licked his lips. “Because you cheated, I hereby demand a rematch.”

“Do you now?” Mycroft drew to his full height. His legs still felt rubbery from coming so hard, but he did not waver. “Well, since you’re unwilling to admit defeat gracefully, I feel obliged to put you in your place a second time. After the bandages come off, so you can’t complain about any ‘unfair advantages’ afterward.”

Sherlock’s expression turned coy. “Any ‘unfair advantages’ will be mine once I’m healed. Physical activity was never your strong suit.”

Mycroft seized Sherlock’s curls and pulled him close. “Then I shall require daily practice to get in shape.”

Rubbing his cock against his brother’s crotch, Sherlock breathed, “Feel free to start now.”


End file.
